#nightingale effect

The night wound down without issue. These days, it’s considered to be a blessing. With the streets constantly bustling through the darkening nights, you found peace in the routine; shout for last call, close out the tabs, argue with drunkards who wouldn’t leave, count the register, pocket your underwhelming tips, say goodbye to your boss and the security guard, and head home.

Truthfully, you never imagined this life for yourself. When you moved to the city, you were warned with stories from everyone back home. Danger supposedly lurked in the alleyways you used as a short cut on the way home. Strangers followed your every move without you ever being aware until it was too late. The city swallowed good girls like you whole, only to spit you out without a single care.

You’d yet to encounter such tall tales in the time you’d spent here. You’d been one of the lucky ones, or so everyone had said. It was much more likely for someone like you to have been robbed on your way home, to have encountered some sort of gang related violence, or had their home broken into. It’s why you kept pepper spray easily accessible on your keychain, and a small switchblade that would probably hurt you more than it would hurt any attacker. 

Except, here you were, feet planted to the ground like roots had burst through the floor and taken hold of you. 

It’s not the bite of the wind that makes you freeze in place. It’s not your thin jacket, ill picked for the change of the seasons. It’s not even the rats that scurry in darkened corners, threatening to send a chill up your spine as you imagine how close they might be.

No, your terror comes from something else. Someone else.

He stares back at you, pinning you in place with eyes made from ice itself. He’d meant to hide, clearly, from his position behind the trash cans. It’s like he’s daring you to make a sound, to give his hiding spot away. 

Still, it was hard to miss him– hard to miss the gun that lay on the cement beside him, hard to miss the way his hand presses against his side in a lousy attempt to stop his blood from soaking through his shirt. 

He’s unsurprisingly pale, breaths labored and shallow as he shoots daggers from his eyes right back at you. 

Air doesn’t find you fast enough. Your mind swims with fear, gripping you with every passing second. Your thoughts are a tumultuous mess, and you’re one moment away from passing out.

Then, he shifts from his place on the ground. He doesn’t stand– doesn’t even attempt to– but the slight movement is enough to snap you out of your paralysis. And you run. 

Back down the alley came from, rushing around the corner and towards the familiar safety of your workplace. The backdoor doesn’t open fast enough for your liking, yet still grants you temporary shelter as you slam the door behind you.

Your hands tremble and shake as you reach for your phone to call someone. Once more, you freeze. Who are you supposed to call in a time like this? 

If this man was dangerous, calling the police would only put a target on your back. He’d seen your face clearly. That man was probably already on his way to you, stumbling through the back alleys to find you. 

An ambulance was out of the question. He was looking for a shadow to lurk in while he caught his breath. Even with the wounds he had, paling his skin and depositing him at death’s door, he had made the decision to hide.

Maybe you’re an idiot– scratch that. You know you’re fucking stupid.

Still, you can’t help it as you rush back to where that injured man is, now equipped with the half filled first aid kit that you stole from the staff bathroom. You pray to whatever God there is that he’s still there. You’re certain that he couldn’t have gotten far even if he tried to relocate.

And you’re right.

He’s a few feet away from the trash cans you originally found him behind, now standing and using the brick walls of the alley as support. This man notices you right away, head spinning to you immediately.

You stop, holding up your hands in an attempt for peace. He looks like a wounded animal, one that is on its last breath, but somehow still retains enough energy to pounce for a final time. 

“I just– I want to help you, sir,” you whisper, voice shaking.

The man’s eyes narrow at you, suspicion clearly written all over his features. His gaze darts from your face to the kit in your hands, then at the way you’re still trembling. 

“What help can you give me?” he grunts, voice thick and strained. “You can’t even stop shaking.”

“You’re bleeding.” You swallow, then take in another breath. “I can help you– I– I have a certification in first aid.”

He stares at you. Then, he laughs— an action he clearly regrets a moment later judging from the pained groan that exits him. He doubles over nearly immediately, barely finding the strength to brace against the wall.

You surge forward, grabbing onto his arm. Slowly, you help him to the ground, and find yourself kneeling beside him. 

You’re definitely way over your head as you open up the kit. There’s hardly anything for the wound that you know is hiding beneath his hand, but there’s at least some butterfly bandaids to help close the site up until he can get some real help.

“Can you– You need to move your hand, sir,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more.

He was already staring at you, assessing you, trying to find your motive. All he could see was the terror so clear in your eyes, along with a hint of worry for a stranger that you just met. You were harmless– someone that couldn’t put him in a position worse than he found himself in.

The sticky sound of his hand pulling from his shirt makes you cringe.

“Go ahead,” he says, and it almost sounds like a dare. No, it’s mocking. “Show me what your first aid certification can do.”

“I could’ve left you here to bleed out,” you immediately shoot back.

“It’s not that serious,” he scoffs, then winces. 

“Yeah. Sure.” Sarcasm is thick in your voice as you slowly peel his shirt away from his skin. 

The sight before you makes your head dizzy– a deep gash runs along his side, blood slowly oozing out of the opening. You don’t want to know what could’ve caused this, don’t want to know who could’ve caused this. You’re still not even sure why you’re here to begin with.

You reach for the cleaning agents first, soaking gauze with the solution before returning back to his skin. His eyes never leave you, feeling heavy against your skin as you rush to clean his wound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hiss with pain as the antiseptic seeps into his body. 

He must not be a real person, you decide. You have to be dreaming. You’re certain that even seasoned warriors would have to have some sort of reaction when 90% isopropyl alcohol is doused onto an open wound. This all has to be a long winded nightmare– one that you can’t wake yourself from. 

“What’s your name?” 

Your hands pause with the question, and you dare to look back up at him. He looks curious. There’s amusement swimming in those blue-gray eyes of his, and you find yourself wondering how he can be so lax when he’s bleeding out.

“No,” you reply, dropping your gaze back down to his side. For the most part, you managed to clean him up enough so you can fully see the extent of his wound. You’re no professional, and you’ve never had to deal with something like this, but you’re hoping the TV shows you watched held a candle of truth in their wound care. 

“No?” he repeats as you smear ointment onto the gash. “Your name is No?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you mutter, rifling through the first aid kit. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for. “You’re a stranger. Why would I give you my name?”

“You’re the one that came back here with a shitty first aid kit,” he points out, and you hate that he’s right. 

“It’s not smart to just give my name to someone I just met.”

“Why? Afraid I’m someone dangerous?” 

You can hear the mirth in his voice as you work, but you still don’t reply. You don’t give him the answer he’s looking for, nor do you acknowledge the fact that you’re terrified of this man. You can’t even help your gaze from darting towards the firearm in his possession every few moments. 

But he is right. You don’t need him to confirm whether or not he is a dangerous person–  you already know he is. Normal people don’t get into these situations. Normal people don’t hide in the back alleys when they’re injured. Normal people don’t do this.

“I’m Bucky,” he tells you as you press gauze against his side. He offers you his hand– the one that doesn’t have his blood drying and crusting on the palm. “Bucky Barnes. Don’t gotta call me sir to get my attention, sweetheart.”

“Really?” you ask, feigning disinterest. The act you put on might be convincing, if only you could suppress the shaking of your hands. “Fascinating.”

A short chuckle escapes his lips when you don’t take his hand. It drops loosely to his side, like the amount of strength it took for him to raise it was almost too much for him. Though you don’t look, you know his eyes are on you. His gaze is heavy, forcing you to lower your head more than it already is, and to work even faster than you already are.

The trembling in your body slowly subsides the closer you get to finishing your task. You’re more than certain that the terror will return if you focus on the blood soaking your hands– blood that isn’t yours. In a last ditch attempt at keeping your nerves at bay, you take the last of the gauze to try to wipe away the bodily fluids on your hands.

“Is there someone coming to pick you up from here?” You manage to speak without your voice shaking. 

“And you assume that there’s people looking for me?” Bucky asks, raising his eyebrow at you.

You take in a deep breath as you finish dressing his wound. “You look too important to be left to die in the middle of an alley.”

From just his clothes, you can tell this man has money stacked in his account. Honestly, you’re certain that the shirt with his blood has a price tag larger than your yearly salary. If you included the jewelry he’s wearing… You don’t want to think about it. 

“So? Is there someone coming or do I need to call you a taxi?” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re awfully concerned for someone that won’t tell me their name.”

“You should really go to the hospital,” you say, ignoring him. “Get stitched up or something like that. I don’t think the bandage and gauze will hold up for too long.”

“Are you saying that the skills your certification shows are useless?”

Heat flares in your cheeks. You said those words in the heat of the moment, to try to disarm him from whatever violence he might’ve unleashed on you, and it’s backfired on you more than once already.

“It’s better than you using your hand to stop the bleeding,” you argue.

“Hm,” he hums, and rests his head back against the brick wall. He shuts his eyes, and pulls in slow, deep breaths. “No, doll. Don’t need you to call me a taxi. I have people coming to get me. You should get out of here soon, actually.”

You bristle at the implication. “Are your people going to hurt me?”

“No,” he answers, and you don’t believe him. “But I’m trying to save you from an interrogation.”

You stand slowly, taking one more glance over his condition. Though color has yet to return to his face, the look of agony you saw earlier had dissipated into a serene calm. Perhaps that was something to be more afraid of– for someone like him to be relaxed and unguarded. 

“Be safe. Don’t get yourself into another… situation… like this,” you murmur softly, backing away slowly.

A smile cracks over his features. “No promises.”

One week passes without any problem. Then a second. And a third. Your life returned back to its normal speed, as if nothing had ever happened to begin with. 

The first couple nights after, you looked behind the trash cans again. Somewhere deep inside you, you were worried to find a dead body hidden in the dark alleys you frequented. Yet, you never saw a trace of him. In fact, there wasn’t even a droplet of blood left where he had found refuge, though you’re certain he had smeared the cement with his 

Part of you is beginning to wonder whether or not that night was actually real. 

There was nothing that remained as a memory of the incident. Even the clothes you had worn that night were immediately washed. You didn’t check over the garments to see if there were stray droplets of his blood staining your clothes– you just threw them into a dark corner in your closet to forget about what happened. You hope in the future, you’ll pull out those same clothes and no longer associate it with the man you saw that night.

The only clue left to remind you of that night was the first aid kit. Rather– the lack of. 

None of your coworkers noticed its disappearance. No one will, either. That is, until someone slices their finger just deep enough to need a bandaid. From there, they’ll find nothing, and your boss will replace what is missing. 

You don’t tell anyone of what you encountered that day. You shove the memory deep into the recesses of your mind, hoping that it doesn’t come back to bite you. Creeping thoughts of danger keep looming behind you– you still have no idea who that man is.

Yes, he told you his name, but there wasn’t anything that you could find off of that. If anything, you’d be surprised if you could find a fucking LinkedIn account just for him. He lives in a different world, away from your soft and quaint one. You only hope that it won’t come back to haunt you in the form of his enemy coming to pop your head off as retaliation from you helping him.

The thought sends shivers down your spine, and goosebumps raising on your skin. You shake it away as quickly as you can, and continue with wiping down the counters in front of you.

The night is nearly over. Once more, you’ll leave through the backdoor, and you’ll head home in the same direction you always have. You won’t stumble across people that could be criminals, and you won’t have to cover your hands in blood that isn’t your own. 

For now, you’ll busy yourself with taking care of some pre-closing duties, and hope that the patrons clear out faster than they usually do.

“What top shelf whiskey do you have?” 

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head slightly. You don’t bother to turn around to face the voice, continuing to organize the tabs you have. “Jack Daniels. Take it or leave it.”

“Neat, then.”

You reach for a glass out of habit, ready to pour. “Single or double?”

“Feeling like a double tonight, doll.”

The single word causes you to stop in your place. A moment later, the sound of his voice finally registers in your mind– baritone, low enough to feel the air around you tremble, but smooth enough to trick you to believe that you’re safe. 

Once more, he sits before you. This time, not on death’s door. 

Bucky looks like a regular person. Well, as regular as someone like him could look. His hair is styled carefully back, unlike the disheveled appearance you had in your memory. He’s in a suit, similar to what he wore that night, but he looks more relaxed. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, and his blazer is wrinkled just slightly from wear. 

You steady yourself, careful to not let the shock take over your features. You finish filling his glass, and slide it over the counter with a napkin. 

“That’ll be $15. I’d ask if you want to open up a tab, but the last call will be in about ten minutes.”

Bucky hums, more to himself than to you, as he reaches into his pocket. A crisp Benjamin is immediately produced, placed right in front of you. “No need for a tab,” he says, reaching for his glass.

You swipe the bill, and turn towards the register. “I’ll be right back with your change, sir.”

“No need for that either. It’s yours.”

The till opens up with a ding! and you pause for a moment. Your body works on autopilot as you take the bills out of the register, then finally you turn back to him. 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s not that big of a tip, sweetheart. No need to look so stunned,” he tells you, a smile playing on the corners of his lips as he takes another slow sip of his drink.

The bills feel heavy in your hand, but you know he’s right. You’ve received bigger tips in the past, and though they’re not frequent, it’s still something you shouldn’t be too alarmed over. Either way, you watch him silently. 

Bucky keeps his eyes directly on you. There’s something in his gaze, but you can’t tell what it is that he wants from you. You’re certain you should’ve been dead much sooner if he had an issue with you. You’re not even surprised that he found your place of work– the two of you met not too far away from here. 

“What do you want from me?” you ask, placing his change in front of him.

“Do I need to want something from you? I’m just here to enjoy a drink. Another patron of your bar.” He shrugs slightly, like you two were talking about the weather. Like this was a casual conversation. 

You’re going to be sick.

You lower your voice, and cast your gaze downward. “I didn’t tell anyone what I saw, if that’s what you’re worried about. I haven’t breathed a word about your condition or anything like that.” The words spill out of your lips in a hushed whisper, desperation clinging thickly to your voice as you speak. “I– I don’t know anyone like that– no one that would want to cause harm to you or to… do anything. I promise, I haven’t done anything.”

The glass hovers midair. Bucky’s eyes narrow at you. There’s confusion on his face for just a brief moment before he scoffs. “You think I’m here to silence you?”

You swallow thickly, unable to lift your gaze. One wrong move, and you could be dead where you stand. “What else would you be here for?” 

“Doll, if I wanted you dead, you would’ve been dead that very night.”

You bristle, and you lift your eyes to meet his. He lacks the same playfulness that he had just moments before. There’s no joke. Even without knowing who he is– what he can do– you know he’s telling the truth.

When you don’t respond, he sighs. In one swift movement, he downs the rest of the alcohol with practiced ease. “And here I thought, we could be friends.”

“Friends?” you repeat, and the thought is enough to make you pale. 

“Relax, sweetheart.” Bucky stands, pocketing his hands as he does. He doesn’t throw you another glance as he starts towards the door. “You’ll warm up to the idea.”

You spent many nights trying to decipher his words. During those same nights, Bucky would be at the bar. Except he didn’t try talking to you again. 

He comes in at the earlier hours of the night, keeping to himself at the corner edge of the bar he has chosen to occupy. He orders from your coworker the same drink he had the first night he came– a double shot of whiskey, neat. He’ll nurse the glass, making the single order last for as long as he can. Only when his glass goes empty does he speak once more, but only to your coworker. 

On the busier nights, women will come up to him. They’ll rest their hand on his arm, press themselves against him, and smile prettily. They try for a long time, but he never cracks. Not once does he remove his gaze away from you. The weight of his eyes follows you throughout the entire night. 

Whenever you finally built up the courage to look back at him, he wouldn’t look away. He would hold your gaze, steady and unchanging. There wasn’t a challenge in his eyes, no, but rather an invitation. It was as if he was beckoning for you to come closer, to fall into his trap, and to come lose yourself in him.

You always turn the other way without acknowledging him. 

Bucky was usually the last of your customers to leave. He’d silently watch as you closed down the bar, closed out tabs, and threatened to call the police on some of your rowdier guests. Only when he saw you were fine did he leave, but never without dropping another crisp hundred dollar bill onto the counter.

You should’ve felt nervous. A little scared, even. Truthfully, you should’ve quit your job and moved back home in order to avoid the man.

There would be others buzzing around him— not the women, not other patrons of the bar that attempted striking conversation with him. No, they were different. Different like him. 

Very rarely did he acknowledge them, other than a curt nod here, and a scoff there. Whoever they were knew to leave him alone, skulking off to a different corner of the bar and enjoying themselves there. 

Time felt unreal with him there. His gaze was a constant presence that you couldn’t ignore, but it was never uncomfortable. Not once did his eyes make you tense up, and want to take an early fifteen minute break in order to collect yourself. You never had to give yourself a little pep talk before the start of your shift. If anything, you had started to look for him.

You lost track of how many times he’d come in by now. Sometimes, you’d be glancing at the clock, wondering where he was if he wasn’t in yet. Thankfully, he never left you waiting for too long. 

The nights felt long. Strange.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to do so, but your feet had a mind of its own, carrying you towards the side of the bar that he sat at. 

At first, neither of you said a word. There was a silence in the form of background noise– the music that you normally drowned out that played in the bar. The sound of people shuffling around the room, conversing and interacting with each other. Glasses clinking and people drinking. 

But you were finally in front of him again, and you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Lucky for you– you had his full attention.

“How can I help you?” 

You don’t answer for a few moments. There aren’t many thoughts that race through your head in the heat of the moment. Panic and fear doesn’t have you by the throat like the first night that you met him. No, you’re calm. Collected. And curious.

“What is it that you want from me?” you respond. Your tone isn’t unkind, but it’s also not friendly. It’s somewhere in the middle, to let him know that you’re serious. Despite it, he smiles. Smiles as if you’re the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, and he just can’t wait to dote on you.

“I told you, doll,” he starts, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a gentle rotation of his hands, “I just want to be your friend.”

You can’t help the scoff that exits your lips. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

Bucky a single eyebrow at you. “And why is that? I’d love to know what’s barring you from being closer to me.”

This time, you don’t answer. You don’t make a noise. The way you’re looking at him is enough– the distrust is so clear on your face. You have no idea who he is other than a name, and an inkling that he is someone of high power in a realm that you know nothing about.

He doesn’t need your words. He nods slowly, almost in approval. “You’re afraid,” he says. It should make you pause, make you run away from how easy that he’s reading you. But still, you stay.

A smile finds its way on his face. One that looks almost too prideful. Not of himself, but for you.

“Good,” he tells you. “It’s smart to be cautious during times like this.”

“Times like this?” you repeat, unable to help yourself.

Bucky waves a hand in the air dismissively. Like with just a single motion, problems and questions disappear. For him, maybe that’s true. You don’t doubt the power that this man has. And he’s right– you are afraid. 

“Why don’t we play a little game?” he offers you, placing his glass back down on the counter. He crosses his arms, leaning forward– leaning closer to you. “Twenty questions. Let’s get to know each other, since you’re so wary of me.”

“Would I be wrong to assume you already know everything about me?” 

His smile widens just a little more, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. “What do you think?”

What do you think? You think you want to smack his stupid fucking grin off his face– of course he knows everything about you. You just wish he’d be less cryptic about it. Wish he’d just tell you straight up without a game.

“Next question, sweetheart,” he hums.

A breath exits through your nose, almost heavy. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until now. Several questions rack through your mind– some too vague to be worth asking, some too dangerous to even whisper. Finally, you settle on something easy.

“What’s your job?” 

Bucky clicks his tongue, and leans back into his chair. He’s drawing a line between the two of you– creating space. A flash of anger flashes through you as the realization dawns upon you– this man will take what he wants, and give nothing in return.

“No can do.” He busies himself with circling the rim of his glass with a finger. “Got a different question for me?”

“What’s the point of this middle school game if you won’t even answer what I ask?” you demand from him, placing both hands on the counter to steady yourself. Irritation is building too quickly.

“And I will answer your questions. In due time, of course. For now… I think you’d run if I told you the truth.”

You shake your head. “This is not how friends work, Barnes. You don’t pick and choose.”

The man before you shrugs too noncommittally for your liking. He takes his time as he picks up his drink once more, and polishes it off with one easy gulp.  

You hope he chokes.

“If you say so,” he finally says, glass back on the counter. He slides it closer to your side, and gives you a devastating smile. “But your lack of interest doesn’t stop me from coming back here.”

He’s wrong. Bucky Barnes is wrong, but you don’t tell him that. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing your true feelings– feelings that make you want to strangle yourself for even falling for his stupid game.

If anything, you have never been more intrigued. You want to know more. Without even meaning to, you’re being sucked into a black hole that you know nothing about. If you’re not careful, you’ll dive straight into a place that you aren’t prepared for.

You don’t know if you’d ever be prepared to jump in. 

He’s not here.

He wasn’t here yesterday, nor the day before.

 Your body has internalized the time that he normally arrives at your little bar at the edge of the city, and you start looking for him when his normal time of arrival comes. Like a dog waiting for its owner, you perk up every single time the bell at the front door rings.

And it’s never him. Even the crowd that he brings with him hasn’t been around– the men that look too scary to approach, but too handsome to say no to. If you were being honest with yourself, they didn’t compare to–

Stop.

You can’t allow your mind to wander to these thoughts– you won’t allow it. Despite your best wishes, your actions contradict what you desire for.

No one is allowed to sit at his seat. The very last stool at the end of the bar, right beside the wall. Your own jacket hangs at the back of the seat, marking its occupation by some unknown entity. When other patrons flag you over and point at it, you brush it off. Tell them that they can’t sit there.

It becomes a second job to watch the clock. At this point, you can hear the soft ticks of the seconds going by, and every day you’re being driven closer and closer to insanity.

It’s unsettling. You had spoken to him not too long ago, and now he’s gone. After all his bravado and pride, he’s disappeared on you. Maybe that’s the part that’s making you pull your hair out from the roots. The sheer audacity– that has to be it. There’s no other reason you find yourself searching nooks and crannies during your walk home.

Unfortunately, you fear for his safety. You fear finding him in the alleyway again, bleeding out and suffering by himself, running from something that you will probably never understand. A newly purchased mini first aid kit has found a home in your purse, waiting to be used in the event that you stumble across him once again.

To Bucky’s credit– it’s not just him that’s messing you up. 

There’s a new patron at the bar. A man that appeared when Bucky vanished. You know his name, though you really wish you didn’t. You had caught it when he gave you his card and ID the first night he came, starting a tab that was so lengthy it made you nervous.

Thankfully, relief quickly flooded through you when you closed out his tab that night. It was instantly approved without any issue. 

John Walker is loud. He’s rambunctious and a nuisance, but he never crosses the line that forces your security guard to throw him out. If anything, your regulars love him. More specifically, they love the free rounds that he will randomly purchase for everyone at the bar. 

At first, you ignored him. He tipped well every single time he came, and he didn’t come every night like someone you know.

You should’ve paid him less mind. Should’ve ignored him longer.

The smile he gave you when he realized you remembered his drink orders made a shiver run down your spine. There was a glint in his eyes as he stared at you that night, like he was finally seeing you for what you were. 

“You remember everyone’s drink order, or is it just me?” he had asked, swiping a hand through his hair in what you can only describe as a poor attempt of being cool.

“You’re a regular,” you brushed off, hoping that he would understand. “It’s my job to remember.”

It was your fault for thinking he was smart enough for basic comprehension. “Still. I must be special,” he chuckled as he took his drink– rum and coke– and gave you a wink before he walked back towards the billiard tables.

From there, you would give him polite laughs. Small ones that the normal man would realize was just a defense mechanism to flirting advances, but he kept pushing his luck. 

John returned to the bar more frequently. At first, he was easy to manage. His flirtation was something that you could brush off easily as you had more than enough patrons to juggle at the bar, waiting to order something elaborate and crazy. There was always a new trend online, after all.

But his visits increased. Normally, he would come on Friday and Saturday nights. These days, he’s added Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Slower days throughout the week where only your most dedicated patrons came to unwind after a hard day at work. 

Coincidentally, you were regularly scheduled on those days– though it wasn’t a coincidence.

“Came by yesterday,” he told you on one Wednesday. He feigned hurt, eyebrows stitched together before he gave you a smirk that you wish you could forget. “You weren’t here.”

You wanted to scream, wanted to bash your head into the wall. Instead, you smiled, then excused yourself to the back for an impromptu break.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t run forever. You still were on the clock, still trying to make money to pay your bills and keep your stomach full. You suffered a barrage of personal questions every single time that he made himself home at your bar.

Where did you go to school? You graduate from university?

How far do you live from here? Can’t be too far right?

It’s a shame you’re working here instead of somewhere else. He’d whistle lowly, and look you up and down. You should become a model. You don’t belong in some dump like this.

Do you have a boyfriend? Sorry– I’m assuming you don’t have a fiance, seeing as you don’t have a ring on your finger. And he laughed so hard, like it was the funniest joke he’s ever said aloud.

For the most part, you get away with pleasantries. You begin to have your boss take over whenever John comes to the bar, so that you could do something else. You clean glasses that were already shining, and scrub at nonexistent dirt on the counter. There was no limit to the sudden list of chores you give yourself when John came to the bar.

At the end of the day, he’s just annoying. He’s just a man– someone that can’t get the hint, with or without alcohol in his system. John hasn’t crossed any lines, your boundaries clearly and strongly upheld by you. There’s nothing you can do when he’s a paying customer, especially considering the fact he’s the bar’s highest spender in a long time. 

It’s when John drawls on and on to you that you realize it.

You miss Bucky. Miss his quiet presence at the end of the bar, watching your every move carefully like he was trying to memorize your habits. If you were being even more honest with yourself, he was the reason you knew peace for so long at the bar. Whenever he was around, you found yourself devoid of creeps like John that didn’t know how to leave you alone.

Maybe it’s the way the air shifts around him– how he takes space without even meaning to. His gaze was always sharp towards others, but it softened for you. Even the way he put down his glass a little harder than usual would cause others to look the other way, bowing their heads and tucking their tails between their legs as they backed off.

You were scared of him, yes, but not scared when he was around. 

More than once, your thoughts spiral back to him without fail. You would think of his wellbeing. You still checked every corner that you came across during your walk home, hoping to find him there. Hell, it would’ve been okay with you if he was injured again. At the very least, that meant he was alive. Alive, tangible, and in front of you once more.

Much to your disappointment, you always come up empty. You discover nothing other than garbage cans belonging to the other businesses in the area, or homeless folk that decide to take the dark corner to rest in for the night.

Usually, you walk home without any issue. Your heart feels heavy, and worry increases. 

Except tonight. 

You peer around another corner, a sigh building in your chest at the empty space. You don’t get the chance to release the breath– not when someone is right behind you.

“You waited for me? So sweet of you.”

This isn’t the voice that you want to hear. This isn’t the low baritone, smooth yet somehow gravely spoken words that pull you in with each syllable.

You turn sharply, hair standing at the back of your neck. John was close– closer than you would have liked, and he’s looking at you with something close to predatory. A scary realization falls onto your shoulders in these quick seconds.

John isn’t drunk. You know for a fact that he isn’t– you only filled one glass of beer for him before he spent the rest of the night attempting to chat you up. He’s fully conscious of his actions, fully sound of mind, and still walking towards you in a dark alleyway.

You don’t even get the chance to speak before he opens his mouth once more. 

“You know,” John starts, “you’ve really been hurting my feelings lately. Always brushing me off, never giving me the time of day… lying to me.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you take a slow step backwards. Something nearly unnoticeable,  but enough for you to brace yourself, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

He continues, “You said you live at the apartments across the street from the bar. So I’ve been waiting outside the front door so I could walk you home– come to find out you skulk around these alleys after work.”

Your mouth is dry as you part your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re gonna say– an excuse, maybe? An apology– a second nature response drilled into every woman in fear of enraging an unpredictable man. Once more, he doesn’t give you the chance to respond. He holds a hand in the air to halt you from saying a word.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie anymore,” he tells you with a small hum. A smile spreads across his face, and he looks forgiving. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I found out where you really live, after all.”

John is monologuing. His lips are moving, his mouth is opening and closing, but you don’t hear a single word he has to say. You note that he looks proud of himself– he’s probably in the middle of telling you his elaborate plan to get you by yourself. Whatever he’s saying– nothing is registering in your mind. 

All that you hear is the sound of your blood as it rushes through your entire body. Your vision is moving– the scene before you thumping in cadence with your heart. You count the beats; one, two, three and four– 

You’re running by the fifth. No– you’re sprinting.

Adrenaline courses rapidly throughout your body, pumping strength into your legs. Your lungs are burning as you take in sharp breaths, desperate to supply your muscles with more oxygen. 

John laughs behind you. A mocking, cold laugh as you run. Before his laughter dies, you can hear his heavy footsteps behind you. Panic grows quickly through you as you hear him call after you, telling you your struggle is futile.

Maybe it is. Maybe this is the end of everything. You sure as hell won’t let him take you away without a fight.

The alleyway isn’t that much of a maze. You know every single exit towards the main streets from several different routes. You cut corners, rushing around them while praying there is no one on the other side to box you in.

You don’t know what you’ll do when you reach the street. The city is dead at this time of night– half past two in the morning. Maybe it’s closer to three. You’re not sure.

Your phone is tucked securely in your purse in some unknown crevice. Rifling through the shit you have in your purse will only slow you down more than you are comfortable to allow. Very briefly, you recall the lack of battery in your phone. Will that piece of shit device last long enough for you to even connect with the emergency services? Will the police be able to locate you? 

You’ll have to try regardless of your situation. Fortune favors the bold, and you’ve lived long enough to gain her blessings. It’s what you tell yourself as a scream rips through the air for half a second before it cuts off, muffled by another’s doing.

At first, you couldn’t even tell where the scream came from. Was it down the block? Maybe it was behind you. You couldn’t even register your own voice as you fought with all your might, kicking and digging your nails into John’s skin as he pulled you back, farther and farther awat from the street that was so close.

Futile. Your resistance means little against this man– you’d overheard him brag to others about his background. A star football player back in his younger days, then went straight to West Point fresh out of high school. The man had been through several wars and survived every single one, seeing horrors that you only read about. 

Tears begin to blur your vision as reality settles in. 

What is this man going to do to you? Will he drag you into a corner, and steal you for all your worth? Maybe you’ll wake up in a dark, decrepit place with a door that locks from the outside. You don’t know. You don’t know anything besides the fact that you’re still conscious– still awake and breathing. 

Still, your muscles burn beneath your skin as you fight as hard as you can. You can feel them pull and tear with every single one of your wild movements, but there’s nothing else you can do. Perhaps he’ll figure that you’re too much trouble than you’re worth, maybe even decide to have a sudden change of heart as God Himself strikes him with wisdom. 

Something quiet zips through the air, whizzing by fast enough to produce a sharp noise. It’s loud enough for you to notice despite your adrenaline, but soft enough that those in the street or apartments across the road wouldn’t be able to hear a single thing. 

Then all at once, the pressure on your body disappears. You stumble forward from your own momentum, barely catching yourself before you eat the cement in front of you. Behind you, a heavy thud catches your attention.

Slowly, you turn with your throat stuck on something thick, something that won’t swallow easily. 

John Walker lays in a growing pool of his own blood, staining the cement beneath him in crimson. You can’t see his chest moving up and down in shallow breaths. No— he’s gone. His lifeless eyes stare up at the light polluted sky, close to glazing over as the cells in his body give up.

Not too far away, tucking his gun back into the inner pocket of his jacket, Bucky Barnes stands. A mixture of irritation and a hint of concern paints his features as he clicks his tongue.

“You should start using the sidewalk, doll,” he tells you, sarcasm and jest lightly lining his voice. “Avoid the back alleys from now on.”

It’s not funny. He’s not funny, at least not right now. In fact, nothing happening to you right now is safe to be laughing about. 

But at the end of the day, you’re safe. The danger is gone, and your savior is walking towards you. You should be happy. You should feel relief. You should be laughing, even if it was out of disbelief.

There’s nothing but dread in your chest as your knees hit the ground, the blow promising you dark purple bruises that will take a couple weeks to heal.

The pool beneath John spreads. Once more, your clothes are stained with blood that isn’t yours. Yet, you can’t do anything but stare blankly. Hot tears continue to stream down your face as you try to make sense of the last ten minutes, but you can’t come to a conclusion that makes the slightest bit of sense.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, and your head snaps up towards him. It’s only then that you realize he’s made his way right in front of you, squatting down before you to block your vision from the body that lays behind him. His eyebrows are pulled together, worry all over his face. “Are you alright?”

What a stupid fucking question. One that you would scoff at if you could find your voice, then demand if he thinks that you’re doing okay. 

Instead, “You killed him,” exits your mouth.

A frown finds him, and his head tilts just a few degrees. “Did you want me to keep him alive?” 

When you don’t answer, his expression softens. Bucky watches as your tears continue to flow, falling down your face in fat globs that you can’t stop. He reaches for you, fingertips barely brushing against your shoulder before you flinch wildly, falling straight back on your ass. 

Bucky’s hands fly up in surrender, and he looks regretful. This time, he stays silent. He lets you think, lets you finally register the weight of your situation. 

A sob breaks through your throat, and you curl in on yourself out of instinct. You hug yourself– only to stop and pull your hands away from yourself at the feeling of sticky warmth clinging to your sweater.

It’s blood. John’s blood. It’s all over you, on your knees, on the back pockets of your jeans, and now smeared on the sides of your top. Your breaths turn frantic– the rapid breaths doing little for your body.

Bucky says something that sounds like it comes from a place of concern, but you don’t hear it, can’t hear it over the sound of you throwing up. 

He collects your hair quickly, not letting the ends of it brush against the mixture of blood and vomit in front of you. He lets you take your time, rubbing a hand slowly against your back in an attempt of comfort.

It’s when your breathing finally evens out that he speaks once more.

“Let me take you somewhere safe,” he whispers, like a volume any louder would make you break once more. 

When you look up at him, you find him staring right back at you— just like always. His eyes drop down to your lips, and he swipes his thumb at the corner of your mouth. Very vaguely do you realize he wiped away remnants of your own throw up. He didn’t even flinch, as if this was just second nature for him.

Briefly, you try glance behind him despite your better judgement.

You can’t see his body, not with the broad mass of Bucky blocking your view. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way it looks. Maybe you’ll have nightmares for the rest of your days, remembering this moment, and–

“My people will take care of this. Don’t worry about a single thing,” Bucky tells you, cutting through your thoughts before it can go to an even darker place.

Your throat feels raw as you manage a response, “Is this normal for you?” You stop only to swallow, the action feeling scratchy and dry. “Kill… Killing people?”

“Killing people?” he repeats, then nods. “Yes. But saving people? That’s not normal for me, sweetheart.”

You can’t help yourself. You know it sounds ungrateful, but the words still leave your lips in a breathless whisper. “Why me?” 

“Told you: I want to be your friend, and I’m working on it. How the hell can I achieve that if you’re dead in a corner or locked away somewhere I can’t reach you?”

So, for his own gain. He did it for himself.

Still, you can’t be mad. You can’t find yourself being upset with him as he continues to coax you to stand, then ultimately leads you out of the alley and towards his car. 

Bucky holds the passenger door open for you, motioning for you to go ahead and board his car– a vehicle that looks too expensive for you to dirty with the amount of shit on your clothes, but he doesn’t bat a single eye. He takes your hand, leading you closer until you finally step in. You’re lifeless as he buckles you in, then shuts the door for you.

The late night city lights blur in your vision. Maybe he’s driving too fast for you to register individual lights, or your tears are once again hindering your eyesight. Either way, you don’t know how much time passed before Bucky pulled into a building– a house. His house.

Ever the gentleman, he quickly exits the car and rushes to your side. Just as he helped you enter, he’s helping you exit.

This time, he doesn’t let you walk. He scoops you into his arms,  and carries you inside. 

Immediately, you’re assaulted with his scent. Everything smells like him– something woody, a hint of honey, and gunpowder beneath it all. His home is minimalistic. Neutral colors, and very little decor. Something tells you that he doesn’t spend a lot of time here.

Your feet touch the floor once more in the bathroom. Clean marble and tile surrounds you as you stand there, watching as he pulls out a fresh towel from the closet and places it on the counter. No words are exchanged between the two of you. Bucky simply nods at you once before he exits once more, leaving you to take the time to clean yourself.

On something akin to autopilot, you move. You peel the dirty clothes off your body, letting them fall into a pile on the floor. You figure out how to turn his complicated shower on, and you scan his products. They’re expensive, a brand that you can’t pronounce, but it doesn’t matter. It’s soap to clean you, to rid you of the night that you just had.

The water is pink as it swirls down the drain. His blood must’ve soaked through your clothes, you realize. Maybe it’s in your hair, or somewhere else that you can’t reach. You keep scrubbing at your skin anyway, frustration building within you as you keep at it– the water won’t run clear. It’s still stuck in a pink that feels like it’s mocking you, reminding you of everything that had happened and more–

You gasp sharply as your hands are ripped away from your body, and you’re face to face with Bucky once more.

He’s upset. Something tells you that he’s not upset with you. Just upset in general. You stare at him in silence, waiting for him to explain, to tell you what’s bothering him so bad.

A deep breath leaves his nostrils as the grip on your wrists loosens. “Let myself in,” he murmurs. “You were crying, and you wouldn’t answer me when I was knocking…” Bucky shakes his head, and your name exits his lips in a soft whisper, “You’re hurting yourself.”

You swallow, blinking away water that runs down your face. Or maybe it’s your tears. You don’t know. “There’s so much blood,” you tell him, voice cracking. “I– I’m trying to clean it all away.”

“Doll, no,” he says, almost like he’s trying to comfort a child. “You’re scratching yourself. This blood is yours.”

You look down at yourself– you’ve scratched yourself raw under the spray of the shower. Only now do you realize that you’re standing before him, soaked to the bone from the shower. Self inflicted wounds decorate your skin from how hard you tried to clean yourself.

Your lip trembles as you close your eyes. “There’s still so much blood,” you whisper.

“That blood is on my hands.” Bucky’s thumbs rub gentle circles into your wrists. “You don’t have to hold that over your head. It’s my burden to deal with.”

Maybe you’re stupid, out of your head insane. Just the other day, you were arguing with yourself over the logistics of trusting this man who had vanished into thin air. Now, you’re nothing short of vulnerable before him, allowing him to take over the task of cleaning you up.

Bucky’s touch is careful, almost like he’s dealing with a flower rather than a human being. Your hair suds up with shampoo thanks to him, and he’s careful when he passes soap over your skin once again. Then, he washes away everything diligently. The water is finally clear by the time he leads you out of the shower.

You’re wrapped in a fluffy towel, dried down carefully before he reaches for you once again. He smears a mixture of lotion and ointment onto your skin, making sure that everything settles evenly over your wounds before moving on.He blow dries your hair, carefully combing his fingers through the tresses to make sure not a single knot survives in his wake.

Once again, you’re lifted into his arms as he carries you out of the bathroom. He brings you to a bedroom– one that you can only assume is his from the sheer size of it. 

You touch the plush sheets as he sets you down, then turns away only to go for his closet. Within a few seconds, he produces a clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts for you to wear, laying them out on the bed beside you. 

“You should get some rest,” he says, taking a few steps back from you to give you space. “I’m gonna–”

“Will you stay with me?” you cut him off, your voice small.

Bucky pauses for a few moments. Then, he pulls in a tight breath. “I’m going to clean up,” he says, continuing his earlier sentence. “And I’ll be right back. In the meantime, get changed. Comfortable. Whatever you need to do.”

His words are the only thing that you can trust right now– you can’t even trust your own mind. For now, you listen to his words without another question, and find yourself underneath his sheets.

You’re still staring up at the ceiling blankly when he returns to the room.

Bucky’s changed into clothes similar to the ones that hang loose on your body. His body emits a heat that you can feel– maybe lingering effects from the shower? Or maybe he’s just built like that. You don’t know, but you still focus on the way the bed dips beside you as he lifts the sheets up and slides into the space beside you.

Darkness engulfs the room as he turns out the lights. The only thing you can focus on is the sound of his breathing evening out slowly. You can’t feel his gaze on you, but you don’t need to. Not this time.

All you need is him beside you. His presence is more than enough to give you some form of safety. His presence is more than enough to let yourself start crying again. This time, your tears aren’t backed by fear or pain. It’s relief. 

The bed shifts once more as Bucky moves. He’s slow in his movements, giving you all the time in the world to move away or shove him off of you, but you don’t. You allow yourself to be wrapped into his embrace, diving deeper into the warmth that he brings.

Neither of you say a word as you cry into his chest. Bucky rubs your back slowly, tucking your head beneath his chin. 

Sunlight kisses your eyelids, gently coaxing you from rest. 

You’re not sure when sleep finally found you last night. Your body still feels as heavy as it did before you fell asleep, but your mind is refreshed.

And Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

You hear him instead– the sounds of sizzling coming from outside the bedroom door along with a few pots and plates clinking around. It doesn’t take long before you finally get up, muscles screaming in protest as you do. 

The contrast is strange, you decide, as you watch him in the kitchen. From seeing him bleeding out, to the strange mystery he exuded at the bar, to seeing him take down an aggressor without batting an eye. It all feels unreal as you watch him in such a domestic setting.

Bucky acknowledges you with a small nod and a hum as you take a seat at the island counter. The silence stretches comfortably between the two of you. Sizzling and hissing from the pan fills in the lack of conversation. Soon enough, pancakes are plated beside strips of bacon and eggs. Your helping is placed right in front of you as Bucky slides into the seat beside yours. 

You take a few bites, and you can only believe that the food tastes good. Not all of your senses have returned to you, it seems.

“Do you feel better today?” Bucky finally speaks in between bites. 

It baffles you how normal he is. It should frighten you, fill you with enough fear to run away completely when you remember that just last night, he took a life. And now, he’s eating scrambled eggs with gusto. 

“I… don’t really know,” you answer truthfully, stabbing your fork through a piece of bacon.

Bucky hums in understanding, something that also feels strange. “You did nothing wrong– I hope you know that. There’s creeps all over the world that like to prey on pretty girls like you.”

It’s so casual, the way he speaks. Would you have preferred it if he was more… formal with his approach?  Another thing to add on to the list of things you’re unsure of. 

“Thank you.”

Bucky makes a small noise akin to laughter. A chuckle, perhaps. “Don’t have to thank me for the compliment, doll. It goes without saying that you’re pret–”

“Not for that,” you cut him off quickly, turning to look at him. He meets your gaze a moment later, mouth full of pancakes. The sight makes you smile, even just a little bit. You take a breath and continue, “For saving me. Thank you.”

Bucky chews slowly before swallowing, clearing his mouth. He nods a few times, casting his eyes downward to his plate. His fork pokes around at the food, almost shyly. “Don’t gotta thank me for that either.”

Bucky meets your eyes once more, and offers you a smile. A genuine smile, like he meant it. 

Maybe it’s the heat of the moment. Maybe it’s the fact that he looks so different like this– hair mussed from sleep, wearing simple clothes instead of the expensive fabrics you recognize on his body. He doesn’t exude intimidation or authority at this moment. 

Or it’s because he’s your savior. You might be patient zero for the nightingale effect. 

Either way, you don’t stop yourself as you lean towards him, lips pressing against his own. 

His response is almost immediate. He presses deeper into you, so utterly relaxed and helpless against you. You move with him in a slow, almost steady kiss as if this wasn’t the first time that you’ve had each other.

All at once, he’s gone. 

Your eyes fly open as he stands up, quickly creating distance between the two of you. Dread fills in the deepest part of your stomach as you watch him run both hands through his hair then catch onto his neck as he takes in deep breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly say, almost breathless as you clamber onto your feet. “I– I should go. I’m going to go home–”

You barely turn away before he’s right there again, grabbing onto your wrist to stop you from leaving. As fast as he held onto you, he was quick to loosen his hold, reminding you that you weren’t being held captive by him. 

“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy that,” he murmurs softly. He rubs his thumb against your skin, just as he did the night before. His jaw clenches and relaxes a few times before he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “I just don’t want you to regret whatever you’re doing because you’re confused– your emotions are all over the place. I don’t want you to look back on whatever you do now and think that it was only because you feel safe with me. I don’t want that.”

“What do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he quickly rejects, shaking his head. 

“I– I don’t want to think right now,” you stutter out, voice timid. “I just… I don’t want to focus on everything that happened.”

Bucky shakes his head, still being the rational one between the two of you. “This isn’t what you should do, regardless of that. There’s other things we can do, other ways we can–”

Once more, you cut him off. This time, the words spilling from you like water broken from a dam. “Friends kiss, don’t they?” Bucky stares at you, a flash of confusion shooting across his features. You swallow and continue, “You said you want to be friends with me, right? I think that friends can kiss without strings attached.”

A soft laugh fills your ears as he smiles at you. He looks boyish and so devastatingly soft. “I don’t do no strings attached, sweetheart.”

You should take the out that he’s giving you. Rational thoughts are knocking down the door to your brain, but you don’t let them in. You move closer to him instead, and you don’t fight Bucky when his hands rest on your waist. You don’t stop yourself as your arms wrap around his neck, and once more– you’re leaning in. This time, he meets you halfway. 

The kiss isn’t as cautious as the first one was. No, this one is filled with desperation from both of you.

You, needing something to hold onto, won’t stop pulling him deeper into you. Him, unable to let you go now that he has you. It’s a dangerous mix, one that is only elevated as your back presses into the edge of the counter, now trapping you against his body.

The kiss is everything that you need– ravenous, passionate, tender. His teeth nip and pull at your bottom lip, requesting an entry that you immediately provide for him. His tongue is warm against yours, licking into your mouth and claiming every space that it can reach.

Bucky’s hands leave your waist, reaching behind you. He shoves the plates of food away with one single swipe– one of them sliding all the way off the counter and shattering against the floor. He doesn’t give you time to react, but you don’t care enough to even acknowledge it when he’s lifting you up and onto the counter. He settles easily between your legs, hands roaming up your legs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. 

He leaves your lips in favor of pressing open mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. A soft moan fills his ears as he sucks against your neck, and he returns your passion with a groan of his own. 

Bucky leaves a fire burning beneath your skin wherever he touches. He’s leaving you lightheaded from just his kisses mixed with his hands dipping beneath the clothes that you wear– his clothes.

Slowly, he lowers your back down against the counter, then tugs at the tight knot that you tied at the waistband of your shorts. He doesn’t struggle, undoing it quickly and hooking his fingers on the fabric.

Only now does he stop, and catches your eyes once more. You’re a sight to behold– leaned back onto your elbows, lips swollen from just the few kisses you shared, skin flushed and hot. He doesn’t ask anything. You don’t tell him to stop, either. He takes your silence, and bares you to him. 

A hiss exits from his teeth as he looks between your legs– core already glistening and waiting for him. 

Bucky doesn’t waste another second, descending upon you. One knee gets hooked over his shoulder, while the other leg is securely held up by the back of your thigh, spreading you open for him as his tongue meets your wet heat.

The two of you moan in unison– your eyes falling shut as his tongue parts your folds. His eyes flutter shut, savoring both the taste and scent of you. He’s in heaven between your legs– or maybe he’s in hell. He’ll die a happy man here, even if he burns for the rest of his life. 

“Fuck, doll,” he grunts from between your legs. He swipes his tongue against your clit, pulling a whimper from your lips. “So good for me, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer him. Can’t answer him, actually. He descends upon you once more, a man starved for water and you, a lake. He pulls more and more noises of pleasure out of you as he figures you out, learning what exactly makes you sing for him.

The tip of his tongue circles your clit, sending shockwaves throughout your body that makes your legs tremble beside him. You can feel him smirk against you as his tongue flattens, licking a hard line up your folds, then returning back to your aching core. It’s when he forces his tongue into your walls do you cry out for him.

A hand flies to his hair, shaking ever so slightly. You can’t decide whether or not to push him away from the overstimulation, or to pull him even closer so he can’t dream of leaving you.

Thankfully, he decides for you, pressing his tongue deeper into you, only to quickly pull it back out and replace it with his fingers. 

Three thick digits spread you open for him, sending stars into your vision as your head falls back, hanging loosely as he quickly figures out where you like him best. He’s not careful in his exploration, almost like he’s desperate to know every single part of you.

His fingers curl inside you at the same time he closes his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks. You cry out something akin to his name, but it’s too hard to decipher from the whines that follow straight after.

Bucky doesn’t stop his movements throughout your entire high, moaning against you as you coat both his fingers and mouth with your essence. Only when you begin to push on his head lightly does he part from you, keeping his fingers buried in you.

You can barely push yourself up off the counter, sitting up again. He stands up straight, immediately meeting your lips in a hot, wet kiss. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, but you can’t find yourself to care as his thumb reaches for your clit next, rubbing lazy circles into you.

When your heart finally slows back down, he pulls his fingers from you. A whimper follows, and he tuts ever so slightly.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I’m not gonna leave you empty for long,” he promises, voice husky and thick with desire. 

Bucky tugs you off the counter, and spins you around. The counter is wet against your chest as you lean over it, but you can’t find yourself caring about it. He bunches the hem of your shirt up to your waist, and sighs softly at the sight of you.

Then, you feel him.

The tip of his cock nudges at your pussy, moving up and through your folds to coat himself in your cum. Your forehead drops onto the counter, as you plead, “Fuck, Bucky, hurry.”

Bucky chuckles behind you, somehow finding amusement in your impatience as if he isn’t leaking, mixing his precum with your juices. He finds purchase at your hips as his cock catches at your entrance, the thick head prodding and testing.

“You made me wait so long to be your friend, and you’re the one getting testy here?” he teases you, pressing ever so slightly into you.

You let out a cry, trying to push back into him. He holds you steady in his hands, not allowing you to take him without his permission. Frustration boils inside you as you lift your head, looking at him over your shoulder.

Pleas, words of desperation, and whines are about to fall from your lips as you make eye contact with him. He steals the air from your lungs as he slides home in one single stroke.

Bucky curses behind you, his breathing growing heavy as he adjusts to the feel of you– tight walls squeezing and already fluttering around his engorged dick– he’s not sure how long he can last wrapped in your heat.

Still, he would rather be damned than make the most out of his time buried deep in you.

Skin slaps against skin as he finds a pace pleasurable for the both of you. Moans are your only form of communication as all your senses focus on him– his cock sliding in and out of you in a vigorous pace, the feel of his balls slapping right against your clit with each thrust, and the feel of his hands squeezing hard at your hips to let you know that he’s just as affected as you are. 

“God,” he moans from behind you, “You take me so well, baby. Like you’re made just for me.”

You can only whimper in response, drowning in your pleasure. 

Stupidly, you reach behind you to grab onto his wrist, desperate to have more of him than you already have, only to have both hands pulled right behind you. Bucky tugs you off of the counter and back towards his chest, one hand snaking to your front and up to your throat. His hand closes around your neck, your heartbeat thrumming right beneath his fingertips. 

He still fucks right up into you, the angle pressing him deeper and deeper into your pussy. Your head falls back against his shoulders as you let himself hold you up, damn near limp in his arms.

“Poor thing,” he chuckles in your ear. “Can’t focus on anything but my cock, huh?”

You barely manage a strangled moan before his hand leaves your throat, moving downwards. He stops right beneath your navel, and sucks in a sharp breath as he presses his hand against your tummy.

“Fuck,” he curses, more to himself than you. “You feel that, doll? It’s me– god, I’m just ripping you apart right now, huh?”

If you were of sound mind, you’d agree, tell him Yes, I’m so full of you, stuffed more than I could ever comprehend. But you’re not. All you can give him is a soft cry, one that makes him press a sweet kiss to your temple.

“Need you to see this,” he mutters, and lets go of your hands. 

Quickly, you’re being pushed forward towards the counter again. This time, you have one forearm bracing yourself to keep yourself standing while he picks up one of your legs, hooking your knee at his elbow. You can see his face now– see the way his skin is flushed and how sweat glistens at his neck. He fucks you fully, pulling back just to leave the tip of his cock sheathed before closing the distance between the two of you. His thrusts are hard, precise, and full of sin.

And you can see him inside of you– a bulge poking at your stomach with each thrust of his hips against yours.

Just the sight alone is enough for you, pussy squeezing his cock in uneven flutters as you cream all over him, moans falling unabashedly from your lips.

Your entire body shakes, and it’s a miracle that you can still stand on one leg. Even so, he’s still supporting most of your weight, his other hand on your waist for leverage as he continues to fuck you. He’s careful in his transition, fingers digging into your soft flesh as his thumb reaches for your clit.

It’s almost too much for you– without a break, falling apart back to back, you can’t stop the tears that begin to form in your eyes or the wrecked sobs that claw its way out of your throat.

“There we go,” he mutters from above you, leaning closer to you. His lips press against your eyelids, tears catching onto them. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, a soft groan leaving him at the salty taste. 

You barely can see him through your blurry vision, but you swear you see it on his face– a fucked out, blissful smile on his face as he doesn’t let up a single action.

“I prefer you crying from how good my cock feels in you, baby,” he coos at you softly, a stark contrast from the hard thrusts of his hips, “Gonna make sure you only shed tears outta pleasure from here on out– that sound okay to you?”

You barely manage a nod, a sob mixed with a moan being your only verbal response for him. He accepts it with a groan of your name, eyes rolling back slightly before he catches your lips with his once more.

He surrounds you with ease, swallowing you whole. You can’t even kiss him back. If he minds, he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead, he swallows every single pretty noise that you give him, and doubles his efforts each time, like your cries fuel his drive to fuck you silly. 

The tight rope builds within you quickly. After two times, he’s recognized your tells, recognized how your pussy tightens around him gradually– and he finally lets himself relax.

Your body stiffens beneath him, your lips parted in a soundless moan as he buries his face into your neck, heavy moans muffled into your skin. You can feel his cock pulsing and jumping in your soaked cunt– he’s giving you all that he has, ensuring that he seeps into the deepest parts of your body. 

Gradually, his thrusts slow into shallow pumps, desperate to just stay sheathed within your warmth. Your breaths mingle as you attempt to catch your breath once more, utterly spent. 

Inside you, you can feel him still. Hard, thick, and barely getting started. 

Bucky carefully pulls your legs around his waist, holding your body against his. He’s still deep inside you, the bulge in your tummy now pressing against his own skin as he carries you out from the kitchen, and to his room. He catches your lips with his once more, and you can only melt right back into him.

Dark, purple marks litter Bucky’s skin by the time he gets back to the kitchen. They blossom on different parts of him— his neck being a popular spot, but a few stray ones trailing down to his collarbone and chest. He swears you bit his shoulder more than once, too.

When he stretches, he can feel the sting of scratches on his back– the result of your nails digging into his skin whilst deep in the throes of pleasure. Still, he welcomes the sting with a smile. 

The plate and the food is cleaned up with a whistle– such things can’t put a damper on his mood when he reminds himself that you’re still here, sound asleep in his bed from the activities you indulged in. He watched you for longer than he wanted to admit, taking in the sight of your peaceful face. That, and the proof of himself on your skin. He left his own markings for you to find later, too.

He reaches for the fridge once more, pulling out different ingredients this time. He’ll make you lunch, since the two of you ruined your breakfast. 

The sound of his phone buzzing against the counter catches his attention. Briefly, the smile on his face falters, and is replaced with irritation as he reads the notifications on the screen. 

Without responding, he turns off the device, then haphazardly tosses it to the side. 

Bucky’s busy right now. Even if he wasn’t preoccupied, he wouldn’t respond to that asshole’s texts unless he was already dead.

[Unknown, 2:47pm] Hey boss! This is John. How did everything go with your girl last night?

[Unknown, 2:53pm] Hope everything went well… Sorry if I scared her too bad. I’m still getting that bonus, right?

[Unknown, 3:02pm] This is John by the way, haha. John Walker.

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so!! i was trying to hint at this subtly through the ending of the fic, but when john calls him "boss" it's not really that john has been hired, but that bucky is already his boss. bucky is the leader of their mob gang or wtv and has a lot of "minions" for him to control. i tried hinting at his power and place in society during some of the bar scenes where reader notices that there will be some dudes hanging around him, and she notices those same people disappear when bucky disappears too.

so john is not dead! it was a plan staged all by bucky. the title is actually a dead giveaway to what the entire fic is about. "nightingale effect" is the phenomenon where a person will fall in love with their savior/caretaker (or vice versa). in this case, bucky knew that reader wanted nth to do with him so he created this plan for john to harass reader so that she would naturally fall in his arms once he "saves" her from the danger that he created.

and for who screamed... that was reader lol. but due to heightened emotions, panic, fear, she could not register that it was her screaming in that moment.